


Next Great Adventure

by jeza_red



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death Fix, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, but it makes everything better, well not all the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:38:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling in a prompt on hobbitkink: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2235.html?thread=3385275t3385275</p><p>"Bilbo sails with the elves. He is the only member of Thorin's Company still alive and wishes for some peace and quiet in his older days while regretting that his adventuring days are long over. </p><p>But, after he falls asleep on the boat, he wakes up in... Bag End. He is young again and his home looks just like that one fateful night... </p><p>And then there's a knock on the door and a Company of dwarves pours in and wants him to join them on another adventure.</p><p>Basically - for Bilbo Baggins Heaven means never ending adventuring with his band of merry dwarves. From one end of the Middle Earth to another, they will slay the orcs, get the gold and sing about it. </p><p>Thorin, per tradition, arrives last. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Great Adventure

He was tired, so very tired. He’s lived a long life after all. It was a good life, if Bilbo Baggins said so himself. A peaceful life of a respectable hobbit.  He’s had his books to keep him company, his own cosy hole in the ground that never left him wanting for comfort or a feeling of safety. He wasn’t lonely because there was always Frodo, his beloved nephew, always such a lively boy. 

No, Bilbo Baggins wanted for nothing in his life.

Well, there was only one thing that he would like to have with him on this final journey, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. It was a cursed thing, his mind (what was left of it) kept telling him, an awful, dark think that turned minds of good men and good hobbits, filling them with dark, twisted thoughts and feelings. He should know; he’s had it with him for so long…

But it was also beautiful, oh so beautiful, and how it called to him! It was his treasure, was it not? It saved his life so many times that it was so hard to believe it to be evil.

Ach, but it was, evil, wasn’t it? It called to Bilbo, ensnared him in its web and burrowed itself in his mind and soul like a big black spider, poisoning his thoughts and heart. It was a bad thing, a very bad thing…

And yet… how he missed it.

For Bilbo Baggins was old and his memory was not as it was in the past, and memories escaped him one by one so swiftly that he had no way to hold on to them. Memories of his young self, of the life he’s had before… before he became a respectable hobbit. Memories of almost another life, of another Bilbo who was altogether more of a Took than a Baggins. There has been an adventure, he remembered. A journey that was so unexpected that he’s got caught in it and let it drag him out of his safe, homely hole in the ground into the world that was much too big and much too dangerous for one young hobbit. It was such an amazing adventure… he could tell, but he couldn’t remember. Passing years robbed him of his keen eyesight so now he was unable to look back, into the past, without impenetrable fog clouding his vision.

The ring… the ring as the only thing that was left from that time and now… now he didn’t even have that. It was bad, yes, but it _was_ … What happened to it? Where did he leave it? Maybe the fireplace…

“Are you weary, my friend?”

Bright, beautiful face appeared in the line of his vision and Bilbo was startled for a moment until he recognised that it was Lord Elrond standing by his side and looking at him with concern. He righted himself on the bench he was sitting at because it was never proper to slouch in the presence of elves – especially if one was a respectable hobbit.

“Simply tired, Master Elrond,” he answered with a small smile. “We hobbits tire so much faster than your people. Especially when it comes to journeying, that is always exhausting. ”

Elven lord smiled back at him, but his bright eyes were clouded with sadness of the kind Bilbo has never seen in them before. He could not phantom why would it be directed at him of all people; he was just an old tired hobbit, nothing much to look at.

“Rest then, my friend,” spoke Lord Elrond. His hand rested briefly on Bilbo’s shoulder, light as butterfly’s wing, and for a moment it felt as if something profound was about to happen. But no, Elrond just smiled at him and nodded slightly, stepping back and speaking for the last time. “We still have a long way to go before our ship reaches Valinor. But your journey, Bilbo Baggins, has been far longer than that and you deserve rest more than any of us here.”

Bilbo was left with that. Such strange words, but he’s had learned a long time ago that elves were rarely straightforward with their speeches. If they could say something using ten words instead of one, they would. And this old hobbit was much too tired to try and decipher the hidden message, so he took it for what it was.

The sea was calm and the sky over his head was blue and peaceful. Gentle waves rocked the ship just enough to make the motion soothing and tranquil. It was truly a nice evening, perfect for a nap for an old weary hobbit.

Bilbo Baggins closed his eyes and hummed quietly to himself. Like this – it was a fine journey indeed.

 

*

 

What a peculiar dream he’s had…

Bilbo woke up with a start, chocking on the smoke that has gotten where it shouldn’t have. Falling asleep with a pipe still in his mouth, unwise move that, very unwise. He should know better.

Well, it’s not as if he’s _planned_ to fall asleep on the bench in front of his hole. The afternoon was just so nice, warm and sunny, that he nodded off unbeknownst to himself. Like a child, without a care in the world. Hopefully none of the neighbours saw his undignified display, they would _talk_ and one thing that Bilbo Baggins didn’t care for was for people to _talk_ about him.

“Well, nothing to it,” he stood from the pew and stretched, righting his waistcoat right after. “A nice little nap, but supper won’t prepare itself.”

He put out the pipe on the way to the door, glancing at the mailbox that was, thankfully, empty.

He could swear that he nodded off for just a moment, but in that short time he’s had some really peculiar dreams. He couldn’t recall them exactly and it was a pity, because he felt that they were quite interesting. Something about a journey, but one unlike any Bilbo Baggins has ever experienced on his own. It was…

“Strange, indeed,” he murmured to himself opening the door to his nicely stocked pantry. “For a Baggins to dream of adventures! Ha!”

Only adventure planned for the rest of the day was making sure that the smoked fish Bilbo has bought from the Old Gamgee couple of days ago was as tasty as the old hobbit promised it to be. It certainly looked the part when he finally sat down in front of his supper and reached for the slice of lemon…

When he heard the doorbell ring.

And it wasn’t a simple ring, mind you. It sounded fairly impatient – although how in heavens a doorbell could be impatient was beyond Bilbo at the moment.  

Who would ring like that at this hour?

“It is dark already,” hobbit grumbled on his way to the door. “Certainly any emergency could wait until after supper.”

He didn’t think to be wary; even one thought of possible dangers waiting on a hobbit so nonchalantly opening his door after dark didn’t cross his mind. It was Bag End after all and nothing even remotely dangerous could ever happen in there. It was safe and cosy and…

…there was a dwarf standing on the other side of the door.

Bilbo, for a second, forgot how to breathe.

The stranger was taller than him, broader and scarier. His bald head was covered in strange tattoos, his face was marked with old scars and his eyes were hooded and dark. And they stared at the hobbit as if he was some small forest creature that got in the way of a very grumpy wolf.

“Dwalin,” the dwarf said, interrupting awkward silence that seemed to stretch between them. Then he bowed. “At your service.”

Bilbo had no choice, but to bow back.

“Bilbo Baggins,” his good manners reasserted themselves in the space where his common sense used to reside, forcing him to smile and offer: “At… yours?”

He’s had the strangest feeling of doing something similar once. But it wasn’t possible, he’s never seen a dwarf at his doorstep or even in his home and certainly never has a dwarf stepped into his pantry as if he owned the place and… what?

“Excuse me!” Bilbo stomped after the hairy intruder and found him rummaging through his cheese collection. “Excuse me!”

The dwarf didn’t even look at him, instead he took off his heavy coat and threw it haphazardly at the hobbit.

“No need to apologise, laddie,” he grunted, turning to the shelf that housed smoked bacon. “There’s enough food for everyone.”

“Everyone?” Bilbo stuttered, trying to stop the heavy garment from slipping to the floor. And it was ridiculous, what was this fur made of, iron? Were pockets filled with stones? Bilbo always prided himself on being fairly stout, but he could barely lift the thing! “Who… everyone?”

The dwarf finally looked at him over one wide shoulder and said simply:

“Everyone.”

As if that explained anything!

Just as Bilbo was about to open his mouth and demand proper explanations (really, he was about to do it!) the doorbell chimed again.

“Going to get it?”

He was too distressed to properly think about what he’s doing before he stood face to face with another dwarf. This one old, white-haired and strangely… polite.

“Good evening,” he greeted. “Balin , at your service.”

And Bilbo was once again stumped. Because his mother always stressed that being polite was the most important thing while his very own feeling of indignation demanded that he stops this madness _right now_! Before he has two dwarves in this home and…

Now there were two dwarves in his home, talking like they knew each other, quite cordially, only to smash their foreheads together a moment later. Bilbo flinched at the harsh “smack!” and stepped back, wary of getting dragged into that unusual greeting. 

“I see that we have enough provisions to last us a night,” the white-haired dwarf cheered. “Good, good, let us start preparing everything before others arrive.”

“Others? What others? Who are you and what are you doing in my… please don’t touch that… stop, not that… “

Bilbo’s frantic words went unheard as the dwarves took to ransacking his pantry and rearranging his dining room. He tried, really tried to stop them, but they were bigger and stronger and he was always taught not to get in the way of others, so his attempts never went beyond stammered pleas and panicked apologies.

And, for some reason, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that it’s not the first time he feels this kind of helplessness. That it reminds him of something… something from long ago…

Doorbell, again?

“No, no! I am not letting even one more in! This is a very poor joke, if it’s a joke, and it has to be a joke! Whoever you are, you will not get into…”

“Greetings, Master Baggins! Bofur, at your service!”

“Bombur, at your service!”

Third dwarf said something in a strange rough language that Bilbo could not understand. Not that he would answer even if he did, because he didn’t even have a chance to draw a breath before he was being led by one of the three new arrivals down the hall, into the kitchen, and…

“Where do you keep your forks, Master Baggins? We could use some, that’s only proper for such polite company!” The one that introduced himself as Bofur kept talking, while dragging him around by the arm. “This is a nice place you have here, proper cosy and very homely, always thought so. And I always liked your wooden floors…”

Said wooden floor was covered in mud and Bilbo had no time to even mention it before he was being strangled by three more coats and ordered to hang them somewhere. He ended up back in the hall, watching with growing terror as his usually quiet house is taken over by a company of loud, hairy, rude intruders who didn’t even think to wash their hands before taking to his best sausages…

A company?

Wait. There was a company … no, a Company. There was something he could not remember, but he did… as if it was hidden behind the fog… like a long lost dream that only came to him in wisps of colour and sound…

Bilbo looked at the dwarves taking possession of his dining room, of his fine china, of his chairs and knives, his spoons and serviettes, at the way they threw his food around and shouted, and argued, and laughed. He stood there, frozen in place, laden with heavy cloaks that smelled of wet fur and iron and he _tried_ to _remember_ …

But, the bell.

His hands were working on their own when they opened the door and there were…

“Oin, at your service.”

“Gloin, at your service.

“Nori, at your service.”

“Ori, at your… eh, service.”

“Dori, at your service, Master Baggins.”

And there were ten dwarves in his home. Ten. They were causing chaos and blunting his silverware, and not respecting him at all. He should be angry. He should be very politely, yet strongly, asking them to leave or at least stop making such ruckus. He should drop those thrice-damned cloaks because they were heavy and…  

Ten.

Something was not right. Something was missing.

“Do you have the map, Balin?”

“Of course I have the map, Oin, there’s no need to fret. He knew that it will be safe in my pocket. Unlike some other pockets I could name.”

And it wasn’t the most obvious thing, either.

“Goblins! Why goblins of all things?”

“No fear, Ori, your mittens are safe with us!”

“I am not afraid, Master Bofur! I simply don’t like… their smell. It… lingers in on wool.”

“Someone hand me that cheese!”

“Which block, Bombur?”

It wasn’t… well, of course there were dwarves in his home and it _was_ a serious problem, no doubt about that, but there was also something else.

Ten. A Company of ten dwarves.

Companies shouldn’t have only ten members. Ten was a bad number for one.

“Would you care for a cup of tea, Bifur?”

“Goraz!”

“Yes, I think there is a barrel of ale in the pantry that Dwalin and Gloin befriended.”

“Hrrmph!”

“Where are they? They’re late!”

“Peace, Dori, they will come. Lads probably lost their way again.”

“Disconcerting trait, if I can say so. But even more so… who stole my pickled eggs?!”

Bilbo stepped to the side, out of the way, trying to move without drawing attention of the dwarves (although no one seemed inclined to pay him any mind either way) while he put the cloaks on the chest in the hall and quietly entered his small study. At least this room was quiet and dwarfless. He could let out the breath he has been holding for, seemingly, whole evening and lean on the wall to rub his temples and try to make sense of this whole… situation.  His head was starting to hurt and the noise outside was only partially to blame for it. Bilbo suspected that, since hobbits were not used to being ambushed in their own holes, their ability to deal with stress was somewhat compromised. Especially when stress was accompanied by hopelessness and fear… oh wait, not fear, of course not fear, he was a grown up hobbit and he was not…

 With a kind of muted shock Bilbo Baggins realised that he was not afraid.

Come to think of it, neither was he angry. Not anymore, not at all. He was exasperated, exhausted and irritated, but even those feelings were clouded by a small dose of… fondness?

But he shouldn’t! No respectable hobbit would ever feel at home with a company of dwarves occupying his living space!

What did it say about him then? Of the hobbit that felt no indignation, no reproach. Instead, there was something else there, something that scared him to tears.

He felt… happy. There was that thing growing in his chest, giddy with excitement, ready to burst out and run ahead without sparing another thought.  There was something in his head trying to chase away the fog, spread apart the cobwebs that shrouded his memories in darkness. This one memory that could have been a dream.

If it was, it was the happiest one he’s ever had. With hands that reached out to him and helped him up, that helped him along and saved his life more times that he could count. With eyes that looked at him with pride and camaraderie, with fondness and something even softer, even gentler…

There has been a Man, a tall old man with grey hat and smiling eyes. Two faces full of mischief. And one pair of hands that were stronger than stone, than iron, than fate itself.

But there were also tears in this dream, and darkness and despair. Pain so severe, so overwhelming that Bilbo couldn’t breathe. Loss so complete that words could not describe it. A thought that it was all wrong, because everything hurt and everything burned, because it wasn’t worth it if they were missing…

Missing.

And with this one word Bilbo suddenly remembered why his most beautiful dream was at the same time his worst nightmare. Why he would so readily sacrifice the memories of joy only so he wouldn’t remember the pain that came right after.

Because ten was not a Company. Because they were missing the most vital parts of it and how in the world could they function like this? How were they here again, as if nothing has changed? As if…

Feeling cold and weak Bilbo stepped out of the office. He was in a daze, feeling like a blind man who suddenly regained his sight and has no idea what to do with it. He didn’t want to see, for if it turned out that this is just an illusion, if they all have suddenly disappeared leaving him alone in his dark, empty hole… he would break down for good. He was not strong enough to face the possibility of this night being just another dream of an old, foolish hobbit.

He wanted to step back, but he couldn’t move and soon enough he didn’t have the choice anymore, because a strong arm encircled his shoulders and he was being pulled along like a doll. He dared to take one look, just a little peak.

“Decided to join us at last, Master Baggins?” The sight of Bofur’s smiling face almost made him whimper. Almost. “Everything’s set up for a nice evening and this time we even left a place for you! And sorry about the mud, but truly you should be used to it by now.”

He was being led in the direction of the dining room that was full of chatter and laughter, and his head didn’t want to go there, but his legs carried him anyway.

“So, as Balin was saying, we have an adventure in mind, you see. A lot of gold on the other end, but a lot of trouble before it. So we all thought that, say, isn’t it a perfect moment to look around for a skilled burglar?”

Bilbo’s eyes were watering and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t even protest because someone snuck around and stuffed his throat with cotton, so no words could escape it. Probably Nori, he was the sneakiest sneak of the Company.

“And then we thought that, wait a minute! But we _have_ a burglar! The best one there is! Who would be more skilled in the subtle art of burglary than our very own Bilbo Baggins?”

They have rounded the corner and stopped in front of the table that barely held under the combined weights of Bag End’s pantry and wine cellar.

“Of course, new contract has been drafted and you just have to…”

The knock on the door caused everyone to freeze.

Time seemed to slow for Bilbo Baggins who suddenly became the centre of attention as ten pairs of eyes looked up to him expectantly. He would be very flustered indeed, if not for the fact that his heart decided to wander out of his chest and sit on his shoulder.

Because there have been already ten dwarves in his little hobbit-hole and no one else would come. Because that dream was a nightmare and no one else _could_  come.

“Going to get that?” smirked Dwalin.

They were all looking at him; some with exasperation, some with amusement, some with fondness. All waiting for his move.

Someone knocked again.

“Well… can’t be rude,” he’s managed to choke out and turn around, out of the dining room, out of Bofur’s steadying embrace. Into the hall, to the door…

Or he hoped so, because he could barely see where he was going; his vision was blurred and he didn’t even have a kerchief to fix it. He could barely find the handle on the door – his hand shook so much.

Because there have been spears and arrows, and swords and so much blood. And it has hurt like nothing before and nothing ever after. Hobbits were not made for pain like that; they were too small, too weak. If his little heart breaks now there will be no putting it back together, it will be beyond repair.

But then there was a third knock and he had to open, he was a Baggins and nothing if not polite. Even if it was terribly uncivil of anyone to show themselves to their guests in such state.

“Good evening,” two young voices cheered as one and two cracked pieces of Bilbo’s heart flared back to life.

He recognised those voices, the mischief and the joy, and oh heavens, how could he ever forget them? How could he not remember those smiles, perfectly different yet perfectly matching?

And if only that shadow standing between them, slightly behind, would smile at him too, so the piece that hurt the most when it broke off would heal…

His eyes were overflowing and his heart ached, and he was not waking up.

“Fili.”

“Kili.”

“At your…”

“No,” he said.

They stopped speaking, mid-bow, probably surprised, but he could not see them anymore, so what was the point of bowing if he _can’t see_? If he only had a tissue or was daft enough to use his sleeve to wipe his eyes! If only he could stop them from tearing up even more and making him look so undignified and silly!

He’s managed for about five seconds before the third voice spoke to him from the doorstep. This one was lower and calmer, somewhat grave, but not unkind.

“We have waited on our burglar long enough, Master Baggins,” it said. “Would he join the Company for another journey?”

He was still not waking up when a strong, calloused hand closed over his weak, trembling one. He couldn’t see until he lowered his head so the tears could finally flow down his cheeks. He didn’t want anyone to see them, because he was a respectable hobbit and it just wouldn’t do to come apart on his own doorstep like that. He was also a well-mannered person and so there was, really, just one way to answer that question.

It was to bow his head and whisper:

“Bilbo Baggins. At your service.” 


End file.
